


Moniker

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Cunnilingus, Dom/sub, Dominance, F/M, Female Bard, Femdom, Ficlet, Master/Servant, Oral Sex, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 17:46:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3456221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bard inherits Alfrid from the old Master and finds him only good for one thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moniker

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mozzarella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mozzarella/gifts).



> A/N: Ficlet for muchymozzarella’s “fem!Bard or transman!Bard/Alfrid where Bard has already slain Smaug and Alfrid serves her/him, and he/she learns to "maximize" Alfrid's many talents, one of which is his ability to give mind-blowing oral” prompt on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

For the most part, Bard has little interest in the old Master’s “toys.” People bring her everything they can of his broken office, including what little gaudy furniture survived and a few hideous tapestries, though the legislations and paperwork is all Bard really wants. She wasn’t born to be a politician, but after the old Master quickly flees, she has little choice. There’s no one from Lake-town better suited for the job, even with the bar as low as it is, and she already has a report—though somewhat strained in the dwarves’ case—with local powers. It’s King Thranduil that finally tells her she’s their leader whether she likes it or not—the people need one, and if she’s going to continually call him for help like their king, she may as well be it.

So Bard finds herself in a new office with old trappings, second-hand furniture against all the walls, second-hand scrolls all over her desk, and a second-hand servant between her legs. When Alfrid Lickspittle first offered his services, she grimaced with no small show of disgust and waved him off. Inheriting his dog-like attentions seemed terribly unfortunate, or at least, it did until she discovered the origins of his epithet. Not all men are meant to ready the battlefield, and apparently some really are best on hands and knees. 

Alfrid is one of those. If for no other reason than to keep him off her streets, she lets him kneel before her, lets him profess his smarmy loyalty and simper about how great she is, so much greater than the last Master, how very happy he is to be in her service and just how much of him she owns. He’s lucky his mouth has better uses than spouting words, because sincere speech is hardly his best feature. 

His talented tongue is his best, or rather, _only_ use. He’s no good at political compromise (only subterfuge), he squanders Dale’s new budget, and none of her subjects like him, but at least he knows his place and acts it well. He’ll come to her at the subtlest nod of her head, slip below her legs like a footstool or kneel before her like a puppy performing tricks, always eager to part the folds of her heavy coat. On days like this, when she’s tired between the burdens of the job, the troubles of parenting, and the sores from fighting the dragon, she doesn’t mind letting him fumble down the fly of her pants. She never lets him undress her fully, never lets him touch any other part of her, but he has earned himself the right to palm her thighs while his face digs in between her legs, nose tickling through the dark curls. 

Alfrid never needs to be instructed on what to do beyond that point. He knows exactly how to please his master, having spent the first few sessions merely mapping out her body and learning which movements earned the most noise, and now he can combine all his tricks into an impressive show of keen tongue and teeth. He opens his lips wide around her, applying just enough suction to tease her labia while his tongue curls and pushes inside, rolling to rub at her walls as it goes. He has a special way of coaxing out her clit that she particularly enjoys, and sometimes she even fists her fingers in his hair and shoves him deeper for it, something that always makes him moan against her. 

Today, she’s too tired to bother with his greasy hair. She spends a few moments looking down at his pale face and absurd brows, his beady eyes screwed up in concentration. Then she lets her head loll back against her chair, and she relaxes in his grip, panting contentedly while he makes short work of her. He seems to be able to tell, without her having to talk too much about her feelings—never one of her strong points—which days she wants to spend hours with him beneath her desk, and which she just wants to come fast in his mouth and move on with her life. Today is the latter. There’s simply too much to do. She plans to get home to make dinner before Sigrid starts it, and she promised Bain she would practice his archery with him. But first, she has treaties to mull over, and before that, she has a great knot of tension to unwind. Someday, perhaps, she’ll lie down without all her coats, let Alfrid climb on top of her, and have him massage the aches away. For now, this will do.

At a particularly hard stab of Alfrid’s tongue, Bard looks down. There’s a fire in his eyes that only makes her smirk: perhaps irritation that she isn’t so lost in it as he’d like. Even in the midst of ‘sex’—if this can be called such a thing—it’s difficult to keep her busy mind from wandering. But Alfrid seems to take it as a personal affront, and he buries himself in his work all the harder for it. Sucking fervently at her lips, he runs his broad tongue down between them and laps quick, vicious thrusts around the sides, circling her and pushing in and out with enough _oomph_ to make her gasp. In this, at least, he knows what he’s doing. He eats her out like it’s a personal challenge, or more likely his personal paradise. Alfrid never throws himself into tasks that don’t serve his own needs, and she can see the desire course through him as he satisfies his mistress. 

Perhaps it’s that that finally sends her over the edge: the undeniable _want_ on his face. It gives her power, builds up her own pleasure, and finally spirals out in rolling waves of delight that slither all through her body. The heat cloys in her veins until she’s numb and dizzy, arching up and hissing her release. She can feel her juices filling his mouth now more than ever, and he dutifully sucks it all away. He laps at her folds throughout all her spasms and doesn’t stop even when she slumps back in her chair, breathing heavy. 

She has to forcefully push his head away when she’s done with him. She considers kicking him to the floor, but of course, he’s a good dog and stays where she shoved him. Bard takes a minute to lean her elbow against her desk and sigh, cooling down. She doesn’t once offer to return the favour, and he smartly doesn’t ask. 

Finally, she manages to do back up her fly, straighten out her coats and tell him, “That will be all.” Even after she’s covered herself, his eyes stay glued on her pussy. 

But he gets up all the same and heads for the door. He slips through it, pausing only once, though he doesn’t manage to say whatever he might’ve been thinking. He ends up leaving in silence, and Bard spends no more thought on it. 

She turns back to her desk, quite done with distractions.


End file.
